


white flag

by seoafin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Survivor Guilt, Therapy, Touch-Starved, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ginny weasley is a force to be reckoned with!!, horny and sad, oh yeah we survived a war and now we gotta survive therapy, you are sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23814721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seoafin/pseuds/seoafin
Summary: you figure as someone who moved to a different continent just to get over an ex (ie: the love of your life) could manage something as easy as avoiding aforementioned ex at a wedding.(it doesn't happen)
Relationships: George Weasley/Reader, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was born out of my wish for therapy to exist in the wizarding world and to properly address the fact that trauma just doesn't go away. also i love george a lot. he was always my favorite of the two and it just wasn't fair that JKR slapped him together with Angelina. it doesn't do either of them justice :(

* * *

but i'm waving the white flag  
sending my love back, move on

-clairo (white flag)

* * *

“Well...someone I loved died recently. Well, not recently, but um...it feels like only yesterday when he died, you know? And I miss him a lot. I loved him like a brother, which is funny considering, um...I was actually dating his brother at the time…”

Your throat seizes up at the mention of the only person you ever loved. Four years and you wonder why your heart still aches at the thought of that crooked grin and familiar red hair. You thought that distance would have done you good, but it hasn't.

The woman across from you peers at you through her spectacles, pencil hovering over her notebook. She can't be older than thirty, but the look in her eyes is motherly, and it reminds you so much of the fond look Molly would give you, that you want to cry. Why were you here again?

All you want to do is go to the small apartment you call home (although its never really _felt_ like it) and collapse in your bed.

You wrench your eyes away, and fix your gaze onto the window and the small patches of light that come through the blinds onto the small potted plant on the mahogany desk to your right. The room is small, but cozy enough. Tastefully decorated with a couch and a chair set across from each other and a table in the middle. The large grandfather clock next to the desk clicks with each passing second, and a large dark rug is spread across the floor. Outside you can hear cars honking and people shouting various profanities.

You realize that she's still waiting for you to finish, so you clear your throat.

"And um...One of my best friend's having her wedding soon and I'm one of the bridesmaids. And he—" You told yourself you weren't going to cry, _so do not cry damn it!_ "—he's going to be there. He's her brother."

Dr. Harrison nods, finger lightly tapping on the arm rest of her chair. After a few heartbeats of contemplative silence, she speaks. "You said 'at the time' so the two of you aren't together anymore, I'm assuming?"

It used to jar you, the fact that everybody around you spoke with a lack of an accent. You suppose you've gotten used to it.

"I—well. Yes."

"And the two of you are not on...talking terms?"

Images flash before you: Fred lying lifeless, eyes lifeless, and face split into a large smile that was usually accompanied by a boisterous laugh that you would never hear again. George slouched in a chair, eyes loathing and lips angrily curled. The acrid smell of smoke, people screaming in the background, Percy's tear stained face and the hysterical sob so sorrowful that you just couldn't _breathe—_

Taking a shuddering breath, you focus back onto that small plant. "No. We..." Your voice goes hoarse, and you find yourself holding back tears, forcing yourself steady to no avail. "No."

"Is there a reason for that?"

She smiles encouragingly.

"I...Fred—that was his name—he..." The dull thudding in your head is back, and the exhaustion you usually feel, the one that runs bone deep, has etched itself into your very being. You don't remember the last time you had been without it. Thinking back to your Hogwarts days doesn't help, because interspersed with your memories of snogging George in abandoned corridors, and stealing away in the night to the kitchens is—

Had it really only been four years?

You're just—

_Tired._

"He died instead of me." 

* * *

"How was it?"

You pick at your cereal as Quentin strides into your kitchen. You can't even muster up a glare, because you're tired. You slept fifteen damn hours and you're still tired. Thank Merlin it's a Sunday because you don't think you'd be able to go into work with the amount of emotional fatigue.

"Bad. I guess. I don't know." You yawn. "I'm going to tell Ava that it didn't work out, I don't really want to go back." Then you frown at the encroaching figure as he digs into your cabinets for something to eat. "Y'know, there's a very specific reason why I let you connect your place with mine via floo powder."

Quentin's halfway into _your_ granola bar when he grins. "Because you love me?"

You eye him, that tousled brown hair, dark eyes and strong jaw. You had met him at the beginning of your tenure in America as one of the liaisons between MACUSA and the Ministry of Magic back in Britain after the war had finally ended. To ensure communication between both administrations in case another power hungry sociopathic dark wizard tried to take over the world, your work consisted of mainly paperwork, and for that you were grateful.

You didn't think you could stomach any more violence.

You had gotten the job easily enough. Apparently being a war hero who fought with the minister of magic Kingsley Shacklebolt himself, and being on a first name basis with Harry Potter had some perks.

"Haha." You reply dryly. Circe pads into the kitchen, her first stop in between Quentin's legs as she rubs herself against him. "Traitor," you mutter when Quentin crouches down to rub at her belly.

Quentin was familiar enough with the details. He knew about the Battle of Hogwarts and that you had lost both your best friend and a boy you considered a brother. He knew about Voldemort, although he had still been at Ilvermorny at the time, but the threat posed by Voldemort after the famed Dumbledore had fallen had caused quite a stir with MACUSA officials. 

He looks up from the purring cat, eyebrows raised. "You don't wanna try again? Ava swears by it."

"Yeah well, there's a difference between complaining about my lack of a love life and talking about war, isn't there?" You spit out, bitter and tired because everybody keeps on expecting you to _heal_ , as if it's _easy,_ when all you can see when you go to sleep is Fred's empty eyes staring at nothing, face bearing an uncanny resemblance to the face of the man you loved—love.

However, you immediately regret your words and deflate with a groan. "Ignore me. I'm just being mean for no reason. I know she just wanted to help, but I don't think I'm ready to talk about it...I don't think I _want_ to talk about it. Ever." There's a definitive edge to your voice as you lazily spin your spoon around the bowl, uneaten cereal bobbing up and down.

"That's understandable," he starts out slowly, gauging your expression. His voice is neutral, careful not to offend or provoke. You think it must be the auror training. "But isn't the point of therapy to talk about it even though you don't want to?"

You squint at him, unused to this work version of your friend. "Can you stop making sense? Who's the arse who got me so drunk on New Years that I barfed all over Llyod's shoes?"

He grins at the memory. "Oh please, he deserved it, he's an _asshole_."

That, you could agree with. Git.

"Also," he slides into the seat next you. "I've always made sense, you've just never listened."

Scoffing, you shake your head, but you can't resist the small smile pulling at your lips. Then your gaze fall on the embroidered wedding invitation on your table and your gut coils anxiously. Three months you tell yourself. You didn't necessarily have to start worrying now... 

You still kept in contact with a couple of people of course, but the trip by owl was long enough, and correspondence had died down as time went on. To your surprise, you couldn't bring yourself to care. Work was busy, and New York was an experience all in itself.

One of your regular correspondents, however, was Ginny, who refused to let you sever your connection to the Weasley family without a fight. She sent you letters (Molly still invited you to Christmas every year), clippings of the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes grand openings, Christmas presents, and more.

The last owl she sent had made herself at home in your living room, staring at you defiantly until you had been forced to write back. The owl had gotten annoyed at its prolonged stay in your apartment and had made sure to make its displeasure known by leaving your hand covered in bruises.

Ginny also took it upon herself to make sure you weren't completely isolated from your friends back in Britain. The first Christmas you spent without George since you were thirteen had been rough to say the least. But the last thing you would've expected was to see Ginny in your apartment the following weekend, presents in her arms, beaming at you as if you hadn't taken a job to America, New York, far away from the only people you considered family because you had hurt the one person in the world you couldn't bear to.

You still didn't know how she had even managed to secure an authorized portkey from the ministry of magic to MACUSA headquarters (an extremely difficult feat considering those portkey weren't for public use).

Hermione, Harry, and Ron were also some of the few you wrote to when you could, but only because they had the good sense not to press on what had happened between you and George. You couldn't handle the scrutiny from anybody else and the thought of having to potentially face people you haven't seen in years at Ginny's wedding makes your stomach curl in unease.

Upon your silence, Quentin follows your eyes to the wedding invitation on your table. "I still can't believe it." He swipes the invitation up and stares at it in awe. "I'm going to Harry Potter's wedding!"

You huff out laughter. "Yeah, well, at least one of us is excited."

* * *

When you floo to your apartment, you have to do a double take at the scene in front of you.

Ginny Weasley, star player of the Holyhead Harpies, and soon-to-be-bride is sitting in front of you conversing with Quentin on your couch as if they've been friends their entire lives.

"Ginny?" You sputter out, coughing out soot. You lean against the wall with your arm to stabilize yourself because your legs feel like jelly. "What are you—?" You remember the invitation on your kitchen counter and sag. You had been so busy with work you had forgotten to owl it back. Her light blue eyes narrow at you when your eyes dart to the nearest door because yes, maybe you still are dreading this wedding which is awfully selfish of you considering that your best mates are getting married.

"The invitation. I'm sorry Ginny—"

After all these months she still looks the same, but her long flaming hair is shorter. She jumps up from the couch with a smile. "That was just a formality, of course you're coming!"

There's that. 

"Besides that, where have you been? I've been waiting for you with Quentin."

Quentin who had raised a brow at your horrified expression and Ginny's triumphant one, leans back, legs crossed, feeling awfully comfortable in _your_ apartment.

You bring your arms around her into a hug. "I..." You're still in a daze. Is this some kind of fever dream? Doesn't she have quidditch practice? Just how in the world is she convincing both the ministry and MACUSA to allow her access to the portkeys?

Telling her you've been seeing a therapist is definitely not on the agenda. "I thought you had a wedding to plan?"

At the mention of a wedding she scowls. "Mum is driving me _crazy!_ "

You jerk your head at the door, and the action is accompanied by a glare. Luckily Quentin gets your message. He stands, running his hand through his hair. "I'll let you two catch up. Turns out I have a sudden appointment. It was nice to finally meet the infamous Ginny Weasley."

You roll your eyes and Ginny grins in that goodnatured way that reminds you of Harry. "Likewise. I'm assuming you'll be at the wedding?"

"What can I say? She can't get enough me."

" _Leave!_ " You whine.

He disparates with a wink.

Ginny laughs, throwing her hair back, and turns to face you with an arched eyebrow. "I didn't know you were bringing a plus one."

"How's wedding planning going?" You say quickly, throwing yourself on your couch. Ginny joins you, exasperated at your futile attempt to change the topic, but she decides to indulge you anyway.

"Other than mum almost making the caterer cry? I'd say fine."

You eye her, hackles raised at her forced nonchalant tone. She seems paler than usual, and you sit up. 

"Wedding nerves?

She exhales. "You have no idea. Everybody's expecting it to be grand and amazing because—"

"Harry?" It's not everyday the boy-who-lived gets married.

" _Exactly."_ She huffs out. She meets your eyes. "I'm glad I came by today, it's nice being around someone who understands. Hermione's been so busy at the ministry lately, because of her promotion, and Luna's in Australia." Leaning back into the couch, she starts. "If only _someone_ would come back home."

She pins you down with her gaze, and she looks so much like her mother, you gulp.

"Everyone's getting together a little before the wedding you know...Bill, Fleur, Percy, Charlie, Geo—"

You clear your throat. Loudly. "How's Harry?"

It appears that your diversion tactic doesn't work again because Ginny crosses her arms sternly. "You two need to talk."

Ever quick to the point, she is.

You wince. You can't but help feel that this interaction is hitting a little too close to your therapy sessions. It's difficult enough to articulate your convoluted and repressed feelings once, but twice?

"There's not much to talk about."

_Not after you hurt him._

It's the perfect perfunctory response to someone inquiring about your unresolved feelings, even if the said someone is your ex's sister who also happens to be one of your best mates.

She studies you in silence and you summon a glass of water. 

Then: "Ron and Hermione broke up."

You almost spit your drink out. " _What?"_

Circe finds her way to Ginny, and yowls, a blatant cry to be picked up and petted. Ginny bends down and cradles your cat in her arms as she shrugs at your scandalized expression. Hermione...certainly didn't mention this in any of her letters. Guilt pricks at your insides. Were you so detached, so intent on loneliness that you had neglected your friends until you couldn't be confided in anymore?

It stings.

At the look on your face, Ginny adds quickly. "It was really recent. Just before we sent out the invitations. I reckon she hasn't had the time to write. I only know because Ron came home all torn up—" She exhales, looking thoughtful. "Anyway, it's more like...a break? I'm sure they just need time. We had to redo the seating chart though." She finishes darkly.

"But—but they were..." If you're honest, you're still in shock. Now there was something unexpected. But if there's one thing you're sure about, it must have been on Hermione's terms. "I...How is Ron?"

Ginny laughs. "Forget Ron! Mum was devastated! _Two_ brilliant in-laws lost because of her blundering sons—she didn't speak to Ron for weeks!"

You flush at the implication.

The laughter dies out, and her face soon reflects her somber tone. "He's miserable you know. He hides it well enough and keeps himself busy with the stores, but losing both Fred and you..."

A splinter of grief pricks at you, and you close your eyes.

"He won't tell me what happened either. But it must have been big because I know George would've never willingly let you go. He's still mad about you! I thought the time you two got into a fight and didn't talk for three days was long. I thought for sure you two...I was so sure one of you would cave in." She sighs staring out the window. "Then one year turned into two..."

You don't know what to say. There are too many thoughts and memories swirling around your brain, so many happy memories tainted with sadness and pain.

You're jolted back to the present when Ginny exclaims, "But never mind that!" She leans forward, and there's a certain tenseness to her body. "Tell me more about Quentin."

You blink. "Come again?"

"Are you two...?"

Oh. You frown. Not that you didn't try. It was an incident the both of you preferred to shelve far away in the depths of your mind, and maybe poke fun at it when drunk. "No, he's just a friend."

The relief on her face is palpable. "Oh thank Merlin." She straightens, beaming, her blue eyes glinting mischievously. "I thought I was going to have to accidentally slip him one of George and Ron's newly developed puking pastilles—"

"Ginevra Weasley!"

The smile on her face is both unrepentant and triumphant.

* * *

"It's fine Ginny. _I'm_ fine. I swear!"

She eyes you, nervously wringing her hands together. "It was really last minute, and Percy you know—was being _Percy_ , so he brought it up without meaning to, and I couldn't exactly not invite her—"

"Ginny, stop worrying."

She's still looking at you as if you might explode at any given moment and you try to swallow the lump in your throat. He has every right to bring his girlfriend to his own sister's wedding. Even better that his girlfriend just happened to be Percy's assistant.

Thanks Percy.

You can hear a twinge of reluctance in her voice. "Are you still coming?"

You look at her staring at the floor, and then step closer to hold her hands. "Ginny, you're one of my best mates. Of course I'm coming, I wouldn't miss it for the world!" You say sincerely. Because you wouldn't, and your (failed) relationship with her brother is an entirely different matter than your relationship with your best mate.

You hadn't expected him to stay single forever. You didn't want him to. That was ridiculous. You're not bitter. Not at all.

"—you know how he is with paperwork, always letting it build up and all. Eventually Percy got so tired of it that he sent Claire to pick it up before there was too much." She hesitates. "They started going out a couple weeks later."

Claire. A pretty name. You wonder if she went to Hogwarts, and whether or not George might have accidentally sent her to St. Mungo's via failed experiment. You envision a beautiful, amicable, low maintenance Hufflepuff girl.

The smile is frozen on your face. "That's great. I'm happy for him." You finally say. "Really."

"If you say so." Ginny replies, unconvinced. "But you should know nobody likes her. Well, more than you anyway. Not me, not mum—not even Bill—"

"You two didn't like Fleur either, and she fit into the family just fine." You point out. You don't know if you would have survived if Molly had treated you even half as coldly as she treated Fleur. Luckily, the french woman had the thickest skin you had ever encountered. 

"But you and George were supposed to be—" she gestures into the air, frowning. "When George finally found the nerve to ask you to be his girlfriend, nobody was surprised. I reckon everybody knew he loved you before he realized it himself. Mum knew it, Fred knew it, I knew it! I've had never seen George look at anybody the way he looked at you. He'd get this stupidly goofy look on his face...when I was younger, all I wanted was what the two of you had."

You find yourself blinking back tears. "Oh Gins," You breathe out, and you're both oddly touched and profoundly sad. 

* * *

Molly's outdone herself you muse as you look around the orchard where the marquee is set up, just like all those years ago when it had been set up for Bill and Fleur's wedding, except it's larger. A lot bigger. You'd thought it was going to be a smaller family oriented event, but apparently you thought wrong. There's a flurry of activity as people rush past you setting up the tables, decorations, and shouting. The excitement in the air is palpable for _Harry Potter's_ wedding. 

You had only just arrived, trying to delay the inevitable. But any longer and you would have felt too bad, after all, you _were_ a bridesmaid, and it was your duty to offer Ginny an escape route at least once before the procession.

Quentin would be running late, but he had told you he'd meet you in the village, a few minutes walk from the burrow just before the ceremony started.

Staring at the sight before you for a minute longer, you turn on your heels at walk to the front door, squeezing your magically enhanced clutch. Something in your chest unravels just the slightest when you reach the weathered front door. The usual clutter is gone, like the overgrown weeds and gnomes, but after all these years, the burrow still feels like home.

"—is that you dear?"

You're startled out of your momentary reverie as you turn to face Molly. She gasps, hands flying to her mouth as she rushes over to you. ""Look at you! _Skin and bones!_ What have they feeding you in America?"

She wraps you in a hug and the action is so familiar and warm, you can feel tears stabbing at your eyes as you hug her in return. Maybe a little too tightly, but she seems to appreciate the sentiment when you sniffle as she pats you on the back.

You had expected apathy or maybe even disdain. After all, you had packed up and left without a word. Britain was too much after the war. You felt suffocated and restricted and tired of everyone telling you that it was going to be okay now. As if time had stopped before the war and resumed after it, as if you could start right where you left off, happy and in love.

While you loved Molly like a mother, you hadn't been expecting this.

It's been too long since you've been held in an embrace like Molly Weasley's. You had been meaning to apologize for the silence on your end and the ignored Christmas invitations, but as soon as she had smiled at you, you had known all was forgiven.

"They're feeding me fine, Molly." You say, and can't help the genuine smile that spreads over your face at her motherly concern. The nervous churning in your stomach ceases, if just a little bit. Then more softly. "How have you been?"

"Oh you know, keeping busy, running errands, the usual!" She waves off your questioning. "Enough about me! Come in, come in!"

She tugs you into the kitchen and pots and pans immediately jump to life, the fire crackling on. It smells like delicious, and to your embarrassment, you can feel your stomach grumble.

"Oh Molly, you don't need—I have to change—"

The stern look she sends you makes your mouth close. "Everybody under my roof will be fed, thank you very much!" She huffs. 

You reluctantly take a seat at the table, watching as she flurries around the kitchen in a practiced manner, and soon a bowl of steaming hot soup, spoon, and a glass of water is in front of you.

"Where is everyone?" You blow on your spoon. The house was suspiciously empty. You had been hoping to see Harry before the wedding to catch up in person. As for George...

"At Grimmauld place helping Harry prepare. Ginny and the girls are upstairs." Her eyes go misty. "Oh, she'll make such a lovely bride..."

You nod, elated. "Harry won't be able to take his eyes off her." In fact, the excitement you feel for the both of them is palpable. You don't know anybody who deserves happiness more than Harry, and regardless of the anxiety, you're glad you're here.

Gesturing to your bowl of soup, you take another spoonful. "This is delicious Molly. I've missed your food so much, nothing in America compares to it."

In New York, it had been takeout every night, and while the food was delicious, nothing could beat a home cooked meal in the burrow, the place where you had spent more time in than your own house. You're already nearly done the soup, and along with the warmth spreads through you is a feeling of conviction that maybe this impending sense of doom you feel is just nonsense.

She beams at you, pleased. "Oh, well, I try!"

The rest of your meal passes with Molly telling you of Arthur and Percy's promotion, and the other on-going's of the Weasley household now that the children had departed for their lives and careers. You notice she hasn't mentioned anything about George, and you don't know whether to be grateful or wary.

"Now Ginny tells me you're bringing a date—a nice young man by the name of Quentin?" Molly asks a little _too_ innocently.

Thankfully you had been preparing for this line of questioning. "He's just a friend." You say smoothly. "He's an American auror, and a bit of a Harry Potter fanboy." You inwardly chuckle at that. "Thought I'd do him a favor."

"And he's—"

"Only a friend." You say earnestly.

You can tell she's pleased with your answer. You're about to stand when she reaches for your hand. You freeze.

"You're a smart, talented, beautiful woman, and—" her voice is gentle. "And I always believed, well—hoped you'd make an excellent addition to our family." There's nothing but understanding in her eyes, and you're stunned into silence.

Cheeks heating, you burn a hole into the table, feeling awkward. "Oh Molly," you whisper, genuinely touched.

She pats your hand tenderly. "There, there." Then she clears her throat, looking entirely too casual. Danger flashes across your mind. "In fact, I think you should take a chance on that dragon mad son of mine." She says cheerily.

Now, that throws you off guard.

You blink, not sure you heard her words correctly and choke on your water. "C-Come again?" You wheeze.

"Well, I mustn't get ahead of myself!" She says with a chuckle, as if she hadn't just suggested you and—and—

She stands, wiping her hands on her apron primly. You gawk at her. "Ginny and the girls are upstairs, dear. I'll clean this up!" She shoos you from the table.

In a daze you find yourself up the stairs. You still aren't sure you heard her properly, even when you open the door to Ginny's old room, plastered with posters, and surprisingly neat. Hermione and Ginny hug you and Luna smiles at you from the bed.

Sure, you had joked about Charlie being your favorite Weasley a few times, but every Weasley had been your favorite at some point much to George's dismay, so—?

"Are you alright?" Hermione asks, eyeing you worriedly. "You're a bit pale."

You're still trying to register Molly's words. "Ginny, did my ears just deceive me or did your mother just try to set me up with Charlie?"

At this, both girls stare at you, eyes wide.

"I knew she was up to something!" Ginny says excitedly, hands on your arms. "I'm telling you! She's intent on having you in the family!"

Barring the fact that Ginny looks much more excited about the drama of your personal non-existent love life than her own wedding, you roll your eyes.

"I'm sure she just felt sorry for me." That was the only logical answer—the only answer your brain could accept.

Hermione only gapes. "You and Charlie?" Her eyebrows furrow. "So soon?"

You can only laugh at that even though you're inwardly hurting. "It's been more than long enough." You shake your head, wanting to rid the thoughts of George bringing someone smarter and prettier than you to the wedding.

Someone Molly would be more than happy to call a daughter in law.

"I haven't seen George in nearly four years. I think whatever we had—" You throat grows thick and your eyes fly to the window where you can see people scurrying around. "We're—" you stumble over your words. "—over."

It doesn't really feel good to speak it into existence. But you didn't want everybody tiptoeing over what had happened between you and George for the rest of the evening, not when two of your closest friends were getting married. Today was about Harry and Ginny. You could think of George and his pretty faceless date later.

Preferably plastered.

Ginny and Hermione share a look.

"I saw him a few hours ago." Luna's dreamy voice rings out. "I thought he looked quite dapper in his robes...they were the same color as the shell of a gurglewhip...it protects them from the acid rain of course." She adds absentmindedly at your inquiring look.

You nod as if it makes sense, because if it does to Luna, then in a way it does.

She smiles.

"So—" Ginny grins. "Are you going—"

"Today isn't about me, it's about you." You force out quickly. And with that, you pointedly look at Ginny who is a stunning vision in her dress. Harry _is_ lucky. "You look amazing."

"Don't try to change the subject!" She cries out.

The door swings open, and a very pretty blonde woman with the bluest eyes you've ever seen looks in. When her eyes land on Ginny, they light up. 

"Oh Ginny!" She rushes to Ginny and hugs her. "You look wonderful!"

Ginny's eyes dart to you guiltily and your heart sinks into your stomach. The smile on your face is frozen. Okay, so maybe you weren't plastered, but you could get through this. For Ginny.

"Claire," Ginny says weakly. "What are you doing here?"

She's dressed in a sea blue dress that perfectly compliments her figure, hair done in an intricate bun. "George said I could come early if I wanted and help your mum set everything up! Fleur's here too—gorgeous like always! Little Victoire is coming with Bill."

Ginny laughs nervously.

Hermione holds your hand tightly and you give her a reassuring smile.

She peers out the door. "I should get going—it was nice to meet you all!" There's a flash of perfect, pearly white teeth and then she's gone.

The room goes quiet in the seconds after.

You had known it was coming, but it still stings nonetheless. You inhale, body shuddering, about to tell everyone that you are fine, but then Hermione and Ginny start to speak at the same time.

"—wasn't supposed to be—"

"—had no idea—"

"—not that I hate her—"

"—told me she was coming—

Luna watches, head tilted and amused.

"GIRLS!" You clap your hands and they fall silent, looking at you like a ticking time bomb about to explode. "I am _fine_." You stress. "I promise you! Don't worry about me. _Please_."

You narrow your eyes at Ginny when she opens her mouth, but she raises her hands. "Okay, okay, but you should know that nobody'll say anything!" Her expression goes dark. "I told everyone I'd bat bogey hex them if they even brought it up."

"Sorry," Hermione adds apologetically, mistaking your silence for anger. "We just—well we wanted you to be comfortable."

"I know," you breath out, sagging. You would be okay. You would have to be. But their concern is appreciated and you can't help but smile. "Thank you."

This is what you had been missing for four years. Your friends and family and the only place you had ever thought of as home. New York was amazing, a breath of fresh air. But maybe it was time to come home.

Your eyes catch on the watch on your wrist. "Bloody hell!" You turn to Hermione. "I'm going to change. If the bride tries to run, I have a portkey."

Hermione nods solemnly, but her lips twitch.

Ginny looks confused. "Why would I run?"

* * *

The wedding is beautiful, and the procession goes off without a hitch. When the bride and groom kiss, Molly erupts in tears of joy and you smile. There's a lot more people than there had been at Bill and Fleur's wedding. People you don't recognize. You assume a few are important ministry officials, and friends of the family. You had recognized the group of girls that had surrounded Ginny a few moments after the ceremony to congratulate her as the HolyHead Harpies (one of which had slyly asked George to a dance later). Harry arrived a few seconds later to whisk his new wife away to the dance floor.

When you had caught his eyes, he winked.

You cried a little when you greeted Lee and Angelina, and then hugged the both of them so tightly that Lee had joked about the time he had tried to harvest Devil's Snare with the twins— _I still can't believe you left us for the bloody Americans, their quidditch team is rubbish!"_ To which Angelina had promptly jabbed her elbow into his gut.

"You alright?"

Quentin hands you a bottle of butter beer, to which you take a swig. However, even the soothing and buttery taste can't ease your anxieties. He takes a seat next to you at the empty circular table. He knew you had an ex you preferred not to speak about, he didn't know, however, that said ex happened to be one of the bride's brothers, and you wanted to keep it that way. "Why is everybody asking me that?"

"Probably because you look like you just ate my cooking."

You grimace. "Never again."

"May I have theze dance?"

The both of you turn to a pretty girl, no older than thirteen, with ethereal features. She's blushing, fiddling with the flowy material of her emerald dress as she awaits Quentin's answer. You recognize the long, shimmery hair that almost glows in the dim light immediately. She must be one of Fleur's cousins, but upon further inspection, you realize it must be _Gabrielle_.

You smile gently. "He would love to."

"A pretty girl like yourself? It would be my pleasure." Quentin sends you a grin, and offers her his hand. If possible, she turns even more red.

The two of them disappear onto the dance floor when you figure that you should catch up with all the people you hadn't seen in years instead of trying your hardest not to stare at George. It's as if your eyes are drawn to wherever he is, and as much as you hate it, you just can't help it. How was he? Was he sleeping alright? Healthy?

You're careful not to linger too longly, and out of the corner of your eyes you watch as he dances with Ginny, Claire, and a few other red faced girls. You try not to remember Bill's wedding, or dancing and laughing with Fred when he asked you if your wedding would be next. The thought makes you feel like there's a hole in your chest, a desolate, gutted feeling.

You find Bill and Fleur first and coo at a giggling Victoire who is definitely going to cause Bill endless headaches when older, then you make your way to Molly, Arthur, and Aunt Muriel, and upon Molly's glare to both, make small talk about the ministry and leave with a bruised ego when Muriel decides to poke at your posture and dress. You go to see Ron next. The poor boy practically cranes his neck to make sure Hermione is in his sight the entire time, and you can't bring yourself to mention anything, so the two of you talk about quidditch.

Well, Ron talks and you listen because your information on quidditch is limited to the few matches you had gone to to support your friends, all of whom were on the Gryffindor team.

Along the way, you greet a few other acquaintances, which include Andromeda and little Teddy, but then somehow find yourself sitting across from Percy. Your relationship with Percy is...odd to say the least. It had been Percy of all people who had been there for you after Fred's death. As the only other one in the world who had been with you during Fred's last moments, Percy understood you, and you found that you didn't...mind his company. Something George would have definitely made fun of you for. 

You can't even bring yourself to be annoyed when he brings up broom tampering and regulations, instead you dutifully engage him in conversation and make an effort to be interested. It's also a lot better than finding your eyes straying to wherever George is.

"It's just paperwork, really." You say to a nodding Percy, feeling drowsy in a way that only talking to Percy can make you.

He opens his mouth to reply when a slightly disheveled blonde arrives through the throng of dancing couples.

You don't know whether to thank Claire or hate her.

"Hi, Mr. Weasley." She spares you a mischievous glance, and then winks. Oh no. You _like_ her. And you can see why George does too. "Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Sullivan has agreed to hear out your proposal."

Percy straightens, looking amazed. "Real—" He clears his throat. "It must be the firewhiskey, I'll be right there. Excuse me!" He nods at you in farewell and the two of them are gone.

You're left in peace until Quentin joins you along with Harry and Ginny. Both of them are flushed and happy, and it's impossible for you to stew in regret and what-if's because you can't help but feel so _happy_ for them. One of your best friends and the boy you loved like a brother getting married.

Ginny grimaces, but you can see fondness in her blue depths. "I saw Percy talking to you. That couldn't have been fun."

You snort. "Believe it or not, it gets easier after the first couple of minutes. But I would've still rather taken on a dementor than listen to him go on and on about international tariffs on broomsticks."

"Tell me about it." Harry mutters and Ginny laughs.

"Quentin here," you slap him on the shoulder. "Is a MACUSA auror."

Harry leans forward interested. "An American auror?"

"Oh Merlin," Ginny rolls her eyes fondly. "Don't get him started."

As Quentin and Harry begin to delve into the difference in Auror training and stealth tactics and defensive spells, you and Ginny exchange a look, exasperated on Ginny's end and amused on yours.

The ambiance of the wedding feels like some sort of fever dream. You're lost in the bright lights and music. You see Hermione dancing with Viktor Krum, who Ginny had surprisingly befriended, and Ron who looks on with a conflicted expression. Molly holds Victoire as she chats to Fleur and Arthur talks to Kingsley Shacklebolt. Luna sways alone on the dance floor in a Luna-like fashion and there are so many more people you haven't seen in years laughing and looking content with life.

From this scene, you would've never known that the war ended only years ago.

Time had persisted, even with the losses you had suffered. Everybody had lost someone, and yet it seemed that you were the only one stuck in the past, stuck in a limbo that refused to permit you to move on.

Harry and Quentin walk away to get drinks, but you have a sneaking suspicion Harry wants to see those spells in action.

"Mind if we join?"

Claire beams at the both of you and right next to her George who looks just as uncomfortable as you feel. Your gaze drops to their entwined hands, and your smile falters.

"Of course!" You exclaim before Ginny can say anything. You pat the seat next to you, shelving all your discomfort back to the back of your mind because you'll be damned before you let your past with George sour your relationship with this woman you might actually like.

George presses a kiss to Ginny's cheek and murmurs something in her ear. You can feel his eyes on you as he takes a seat.

"I think I owe you." You start to Clara, whose face is bright with mirth. There are no shadows in those depths and you can't help but think it feels good to be the center of her attention, like a wilting flower in direct sunlight. There's none of the usual sympathy or wariness present in her face or mannerisms, careful to not upset you or set off the ticking time bomb that is you.

She feels like a fresh start.

How can you possibly fault George who had done the same thing as you?

She chuckles, waving. "Don't worry about it. You aren't the first poor soul I've managed to save. I consider it part of my job now." 

You and Ginny break out into laughter. Ginny seems appeased at your initiative to make conversation, and although you're quite rusty in terms of the latest quidditch matches, the three of you launch into the Ginny's last season and her spectacular goals. 

It's your first time actually seeing George in lieu of the fleeting glances you had been sneaking throughout the evening. The same freckles dot his face. You had tried to count them once, your finger trailing all over his face and neck. You had given up in laughter when he had cheekily suggested that there were freckles elsewhere you could count. One ear is still missing, but you can tell even though his bright red hair obscures it. It's longer, like it had been in your third year. It reaches down and brushes the nape of his neck, and it must've driven Molly nearly insane that he hadn't cut it before the wedding—

His gaze shifts to you and you freeze.

Your heart lurches in your chest before it picks up speed, and the music seemingly fades away. 

Those light blue eyes take your breath away, and it feels like you're intoxicated. 

He blinks, taken aback. His eyes flits down and by the time they return to your face it's too late. You turn away, a knot in your throat. Your face burns with embarrassment, and your hands buzz with nervous energy. You're saved from further catastrophe when a Weasley cousin asks Ginny to dance and she reluctantly accepts, but you dread being alone.

"—ew York?" Claire looks at you expectantly.

"Come again?" You wince.

"Living in New York must be amazing." Claire reiterates excitedly. "I have family there, so I visit occasionally. I don't know what I'd do without a portkey, I couldn't imagine getting on one of those muggle bird thingies."

"An airplane?"

She snaps. "Yes, those! Muggles sure are creative—Arthur loves muggle inventions! Doesn't he George?" She puts her hand on his arm, as if inviting him to the conversation and all you really want to do is want this evening to be over.

George stays silent, and her eyebrows crease momentarily. Silence must be out of character for the George she knows, you think glumly.

"So why New York?" She asks quickly.

It feels like someone dunked you headfirst into freezing water as you unsuccessfully fish for an answer. This is really not your day. 

"Well—I—uh—" You sputter, mind blank. You can feel George looking at you, and panic claws at your throat. _Don't look at him, don't look at him—_ "The—um—the pizza is really delicious." You finish lamely.

You had gone to New York for the pizza.

Not because no matter how hurt you had been at George's indifference, you had hurt him more.

Claire doesn't seem to notice because she throws her head back and laughs, and the sound is pleasing to your ears.

"New York does have bloody good pizza!" She beams at you, while your stomach is doing somersaults.

You stand abruptly, banging your knee into the table. "Excuse me, it's been a while and I should really find my friend." You muster a smile, and then you're making your way outside. Once your face hits the cold air, you force yourself to _breathe_.

Just as you thought, you find Q and Harry outside, off to the side, hunched together, wands out and you snort. The sound has them springing apart with sheepish smiles. The grass between them is scorched. Harry runs a hand through that unruly black hair of his.

"I couldn't resist." Harry says halfheartedly.

"I can't believe you two. Didn't even get my drink." You say fondly, glad the darkness obscures your face.

"Sorry." There's a note of an apology in Quentin's voice. "Can I interest you in a dance instead?" He gestures towards the entrance.

You pretend to think. "Perhaps." Then you turn to Harry. "Go find your wife, Potter."

He grins. "Cheers." With a peck on your cheek, and a reassuring squeeze on your shoulder, he's gone.

Tugging on Quentin's arm, you pull him inside and onto the dance floor. You gently sway to the rhythm, your arms around his shoulders.

"So, how are you doing?"

"I'm still trying to absorb the fact that I met Harry Potter. I'm doing amazing."

You smile and he spins you around and the lights blur.

"Mind if I cut in?"

Charlie stands to your left, grinning.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Mum insisted." He says, but there's a plead for help in his eyes. You look behind him to where Molly is doing her best to look inconspicuous talking to Aunt Muriel.

You snort. "Well when you put it like that. How could I possibly resist?"

Unlatching yourself, a girl taps Quentin on the shoulder and asks him to a dance, and then he's gone once again. You and Charlie dance and talk about Romania and the dragons, and your time in America. It's all very platonic, and unfortunately for Molly you can't see yourself with anybody right now.

It somehow doesn't seem right to be in a relationship when you're such a mess at the moment.

You like Charlie, and the two of you have always gotten along rather well. However, you don't think you could ever see him in a different light than a friend, just as he most likely regards you. 

When the dance ends, he thanks you, nervously glances in his mother's direction, and rushes in the other direction.

You snicker, but you think he might have the right idea. Before Molly can set you up with a Weasley cousin, you decide that you should take a break from the wedding for a little while.

* * *

Fred and George's shared room at the burrow is still the same after all these years.

The room is surprisingly empty, devoid of the clutter of boxes and papers, but still meticulously clean. The beds are made as if still inhabited by the occupants, and there isn't a speck of dust anywhere. Molly must still clean the room regularly.

When Victoire squirms in your arms, you gently let her down. As soon as her small feet touch the ground, she clambers away to the far corner of the room. She clutches a stuffed hippogriff that flies and roars when set down. On your way into the burrow, you had bumped into Fleur and Bill and offered to take Victoire inside for a little while, in case she needed a nap.

They had gratefully accepted your offer.

You make your way to George's bed and sit down. You don't know why you had decided to go into Fred and George's room. It feels both foreign and familiar. The last time you had been here, the room had been bursting with life and personality. Posters plastered to the wall, discarded paper balls, an overflowing trash bin, and clothes strewn all over the room. Now it's empty. Does George still in the flat above his store in Diagon Alley?

You feel a light pressure at your knees and look down. A toothy smile from the toddler below makes you smile.

Sliding off the bed, you lean down at her height.

"Hi." You tap her nose.

She holds out a vial and thrusts it in your face. "Juice! Juice!"

You squint at it, gently prying the vial away from her fingers. Holding it up to your eye, you give the vial a shake. It's a standard potions vial and the liquid inside is a dark purple color in a way that reminds you of wine. 

"Where did you get this?"

You weren't expecting an answer. Honestly.

"Juice! Dwink juice! Yummy!"

You look from the vial to toddler in front of you. "Oh, sweetheart, I don't think—"

"I wike juice!"

She looks at you expectantly with those wide blue eyes and it's like you _have_ to—how do Bill and Fleur do it? If it were you, you think you'd let her get away with everything.

You smile, lifting the closed vial to your mouth, and pretend to take a sip. You nod solemnly. "It's really good."

Her face scrunches tearily, her tiny fists shaking. You gulp. Oh god, you're going to regret this, you know you will.

It must be those damn veela genes.

You scramble to open to the vial, and wave it in front of her. "H-here Victoire!"

Immediately, she brightens. She claps her hands and giggles. It even sounds angelic. You wonder if this is a sign of your impending doom. It can't be _that_ bad, can it? Who'd give a toddler a potentially dangerous potion? It's probably just grape juice, in a toy vial. 

You hesitantly tip the vial into your mouth just enough that your tongue gets the barest hint of the liquid. 

It tastes like...pomegranates? Relief fills you. It's _is_ juice. The vial's a theatric prop to entertain a toddler. Nothing poisonous or life threatening here.

Besides, It wasn't as if you _weren't_ a distinguished witch who could easily perform a spell.

Satisfied, but losing interest, Victoire plops down onto the floor and begins to play with her hippogriff stuffed animal whose name is probably "red", but you can't tell because it sounds like "wed".

You lean back on your arms, watching as the hippogriff flaps its wings, but can't exactly take off due to Victoire's iron grip on its leg. "If you aren't going to sleep, maybe I should take you back to your parents."

About to scoop her back into your arms, you freeze when the door swings open.

"Victoire, there you are—ah."

You'd know that voice anywhere, and your heart misses a beat as you meet the gaze of the man you had been trying to avoid. You had gone into the house to avoid him, but with hindsight picking his childhood bedroom to seek refuge in was probably the worst decision you made tonight. You don't know how to face him alone, and the silence is only made more awkward with your earlier embarrassment.

It wasn't as if you didn't know this was coming, but maybe a part of you had been trying to spare yourself the pain of this inevitable confrontation by delaying it. The second heartbreak you would experience with the knowledge that what two of you shared would truly be gone, nothing but a distant memory, perhaps fond for him, but devastating for you. At least far away in New York, you could find solace in the limbo of shared memories.

But now the two of you are alone in his old bedroom, save for Victoire and her stuffed hipogriff who roars when she grabs its tail with a little too much gusto. 

Standing in the doorframe, away from the festivities of Harry and Ginny's wedding, away from the excitement and laughter, George looks...sad.

It's almost instinct to reach out to him, brush a kiss over his cheek, and ask him to show you a slew of his and Fred's new inventions, knowing that nothing else would get his mind off his frustrations faster. 

You tear your eyes away, focusing on the toddler in front of you who blabbers something that sounds like "Uncle George!"

You stand as Victoire unsteadily makes her way towards him, eventually reaching him and clutching onto his robes. 

"Sorry," shaking your head, you stare at your shoes. "I brought her..." _In your old bedroom, the same one you shared with Fred, the same one we would snog in when we were younger and happier and together._

Suddenly, you feel sick. You wonder if it'd be rude of you to disapparate. And then you could dig a hole and bury yourself in it. This is absolutely mortifying. Caught red handed reminiscing on better times as if you can't move on.

Which—is not exactly _wrong_. You cringe and awkwardly shift away from his presence. Why isn't he saying anything? Why is he just standing the—

"Juice!"

Victoire breaks into a toothy smile. George leans down to pick her up into his arms and then turns back to you with a bemused smile. "She's not referring to wedding refreshments is she?"

You open your mouth to reply, but then his gaze falls on the empty vial in your hand, and all traces of amusement vanish off his face.

"Did you drink that?" He asks severely, eyes scanning your face, and the tone of his question throws you off for a few seconds.

"Oh—um. Yeah." You wave the vial in your hand. "I thought it was just juice Ron gave her to humor—" and then you break off because his face pales, and oh God—so it wasn't a toy after all. It's—It's not _actually_ poison is it?

You close your eyes. Okay, so the vial in your hands is George's, not Ron's. It's fine, you tell yourself. It's not—probably—not dangerous. A new joke product maybe. Any second now you're going to feel sick, or turn blue, maybe you'll even sprout scales or something, but the look on George's face tells you differently.

"George," you start, trying to stay calm, but the hysteria in your voice bleeds through. "What did I just drink?"

He hesitates. Victoire babbles happily in his arms. "Let me take Victoire—"

 _"George!"_ Panic bubbles in you, and while you know that George would never intentionally leave something dangerous out for Victoire to accidentally swipe, you're more than familiar with some of the more unsavory side effects of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products. 

"A prototype for the ministry. It's..." he trails off, and then eyes you warily. "A modified truth serum."

"Oh."

Great.

"You need to stay here. Lay down, I'll be back."

A loud crack resounds through the room, and you're left alone with your thoughts.

* * *

When George enters the room again, you scarcely even notice because of the migraine that splits your head open and you groan. You'd take sleepless nights over this pain. Vulnerable and teary. Perfect. Just the put-together image you wanted to project to your ex boyfriend.

"How're you feeling?" The question comes out guarded, and it makes your heart sink.

"I hate it here."

He winces.

You immediately feel guilty at the abruptness, but the words left your mouth so quickly you hadn't had time to think. The pain of the headache recedes. You'd be impressed at the potency of George's near replica veritaserum, but you're too busy focusing all your energy into squeezing your mouth shut, and _keeping_ it that way. You can't tell him anything if you don't say anything...right?

George studies you, and there's something greedy and hungry in the way his blue eyes take in your face. You force yourself to look away, traitorous heart beating furiously in your chest.

"Where's Quentin?" You blurt out, unable to stomach the silence.

"I saw him outside the bar earlier," George says lightly, but there's a stiffness to his body that betrays him. "Bloke was chatting up the bartender."

Relaxing, your gaze settles on George's robes.

The two of you settle into an another awkward silence. No witty one liners or jokes. George is so quiet it's painful. It's so unlike him that a part of you wonders if it's you. He seemed plenty happy during the wedding dancing with Ginny and flustering Harry.

You clear your throat. "You don't have to stay, you know. You shouldn't miss Ginny's wedding just to take care of me." You look at him and hit him with what you hope is a casual smile. "I'll stay in here until it wears off." You're sure nobody will notice you missing, but they'd probably notice one of the bride's brothers (as many as there were). "I'll be fine as long as nobody asks me what I think of this dress. Purple's really not my color, you should've heard your Aunt Muriel tear me a new one."

"'s fine." He says with a shrug. Then he conjures a chair next to his bed and sits in it. Claire'll be looking for him. Everyone'll be looking for him. Even after all these years, George knows how to work a room even without Fred, and the absence of a presence like his is always keenly felt.

Are you some sort of test subject? After all hadn't he said that the potion was a prototype? Just like old times, when he and Fred used to test their products on first years.

George speaks. "It's not—it's not exactly a verita serum replica. That's impossible. Right now anyway. You could say it...loosens the tongue. Makes it difficult to lie." He wrings his hands together. "Dad said there was a demand after...after the war, but since it takes so long to brew and with the amount of death eaters being convicted daily..." His face takes on a hard look.

"So it's like being really really drunk?" You don't feel drunk. Not yet anyway.

"That's one way to put it. A little stronger, but it's—" He glances at you. "Untested."

"Oh."

So you are a lab rat.

"Victoire must have stolen it earlier out of my pocket when I was holding her." Then he mutters, "Mum and Bill are going to kill me."

You huff out a breath of laughter, pretending you didn't hear. "She's got sticky fingers, that one. She's going to cause Bill endless headaches."

George's lips curl. "It keeps him up at night."

The room lapses into silence.

"She's very nice." You blurt out, and you don't know if it's to fill the void or because this potion is working you. Out of the corner of your eye you can see George stiffen. "And pretty. And funny. I can see why you like her. _I_ like her." You concentrate on the ceiling above you and try not to cry. "She's really pretty."

They did make quite the pair.

George doesn't say anything for a couple of seconds. "I suppose she is."

"Don't be uncomfortable on my account." You lick your dry lips. "Well maybe I want you to be a little uncomfortable. She's everything I'm not by the way and I may or may not be feeling a little bitter."

_Shite._

You quickly backtrack, or you try, but this veritaserum knock off sure is doing its job. "Er—you can ignore that. Please ignore that. Actually, ignore whatever comes out of my mouth for the next—when is this supposed to wear off?"

Once again, George winces. "Anywhere from a hour to five."

Great.

"What am I going to tell Quentin?" You muse to nobody in particular. Quentin knows you needed air and time to recoup, so you it isn't likely that he'd look for you. The two of you had booked a hotel room near Diagon Alley for the night, and tomorrow you would be headed back to America. If this serum doesn't wear off in time, you might end up telling Quentin a few things like the fact that yellow really is _not_ his color.

You just hope Harry is keeping Ginny occupied.

Even so, this is the worst possible scenario you could have ever imagined. Could you die from mortification? Well you'd probably find out soon enough.

"Quentin and I are just friends." You don't know why you say it, or what good it would do to let George know. You're greeted with an arched eyebrow. "Just saying. In case you..." You don't finish because your cheeks heat in embarrassment. "I meant—"

"How have you been?" He asks gently, as if to spare you the humiliation, and his eyes are soft in a way that makes your insides twist.

You fidget nervously. How are you supposed to answer that question? You can't—can't exactly _lie_ now can you? Or maybe you can?

_I've been fine! New York's amazing and I love my office job! I'm totally not going to a muggle therapist recommended by a coworker as I try to address the multitude of things wrong with me while subtly alluding to the fact that there's an entire world she's not privy to, and I definitely don't have trouble falling asleep bec—_

"What's a therapist?" He looks torn between amusement and pain.

"Pardon?"

"You said you were 'seeing a therapist'."

You groan, burying your face into your hands. Although it was at your expense, at least the serum was working. Sliding your hands down, you try to think of a way to explain therapy to someone who has never heard the term before, because obviously neither therapy nor mental health is exactly a priority for the Ministry of Magic.

Figures. Wizards.

Hermione would know. Hermione would _agree_ with you. You don't know if you're in awe or horrified at how Harry somehow managed to make it out of the war functional enough to get married in four years. The poor boy.

Mandatory therapy lessons for all participants of the war, that'd be something, wouldn't it?

You snort, and then clear your throat. "A muggle thing." You clear up, not really wanting to get into your own failed sessions. "You pay someone to listen to you talk about all your problems and they try to—er—help you?"

George looks utterly befuddled. "And has it? Helped you?"

Your exhale is tinged with dry laughter, and it sounds caustic, even to your ears. "She says that it's okay I'm like _this_. That it's— _normal_." It never makes you feel better. So you think it's a pretty rubbish thing to say. "So to answer your question. Not really...not right now anyway, but I'm trying—I really am because I don't—"

_I don't want to live like this forever._

It feels as if you're fighting against your own traitorous mouth from immediately supplying the truth. "—want to annoy Quentin anymore." You manage to say with intense difficulty. It wasn't _exactly_ a lie. You figured Quentin deserved a better friendship than one where he had to listen to you talk about all the nightmares and sleepless nights.

The headache is back in full force, and your head throbs. You throw your arm over your eyes to block out the too bright light. The longer time goes on, the number your body becomes. Every sensation you can feel becomes dull and muted, from the lights to the rapid beating of your heart as it slows. If you focus hard you can flex your fingers, but there's a delay as the message is relayed from your brain to your body.

You hear shuffling from next to you. George mutters a spell and in the next second, the lights go out and you exhale, relieved, dragging your arm down.

"Seems like a bad friend in my book if the bloke won't even listen to your problems."

"It's not like that." You protest defensively. "Quentin's a good person. A great friend. I don't know what I would've done if I didn't have him." Shrugging, you play with the fabric of your dress. "Cry a lot more probably." 

You can feel words prying at your lips, everything you wanted to say to him the moment you had left him, disheveled and mourning and surrounded by empty bottles of firewhisky, and you should feel panicked, but you don't.

"It's just hard sometimes—being alone when you're grieving." You murmur.

You watch as his face contorts, stricken. And you frown, maybe you shouldn't have said that.

The numbness is pleasant now, a warm feeling. The headache is gone, and in its stead is clarity. You were right, you _do_ feel drunk. But in a good way. You feel lighter than you have in years.

"I hear the stores are doing well." You say, thinking the change in topics would cheer him up. "Ginny sends me Daily Prophet clippings of your store openings." _I keep them in my desk and look at them when I miss you._

You blink when he looks at you sharply. Then he clears his throat. "Yeah, we—I—Ron and I finally bought Zonko's, for a Hogsmeade branch."

Beaming at him, you take his hand. His hand briefly flexes under your touch before he relaxes. "I'm really happy for you, George."

"Thanks." He whispers, eyes closed.

You squeeze his hand. "Hey." You whisper, and he softens.

"Hey."

"I miss him everyday."

You don't know why you said it. You're in a mourning-the-dead mood you suppose and now all you want to do is talk about Fred. You feel as if you should've said more at his funeral, about his life, his legacy, and the regret eats at you everyday. Fred who together with George could brighten a room with laughter. Now that you think about it, you don't think you ever really...talked about Fred's death with George. He had left so quickly after the funeral and you had told yourself that he needed space, which was a mistake on your part.

“I think about it a lot,” you say absentmindedly, eyes fixed lazily on wall behind George. “Fred's final moments."

Those unseeing pair of eyes so familiar to the ones currently looking at you. The wide grin fixed in place permanently. The tears and the late nights heaving into your toilet that usually accompany this memory are absent and grief does not weigh down your words.

You feel okay for the first time in four years.

George stiffens, knuckles white as his hand tightens into a fist. 

"...George?" You whisper. "Are you okay?"

The irony isn't lost on you.

He jerks so suddenly that all you can do is stare. He swallows. "I forgot you were there." He admits hoarsely, and he sounds— _looks_ —heartbroken. "I forgot you watched him..."

"Do you...do you remember when Fred locked us in that really dark closet my fourth year?"

It takes him a few seconds, but the color slightly returns to his face. "The git." He mutters, blinking away the moisture from his eyes.

Your lips curve. "How was he to know my two worst fears were the dark and cramped spaces?"

"He should've known better."

"He told me you were really mad at him. Ignored him for three whole days. Said it was like missing a limb, not having you around. I reckon you felt the same."

Faint surprise colors his face. "He never told me that."

"It was a lot more dramatic than that, of course. Told me that his jokes had never done so badly. Bruised his ego quite a bit." Your voice takes on a softer tone. "The last thing I ever wanted was to get between the two of you."

_And you had told him to **choose**._

You had loved George ever since he and Fred had accidentally sent you to the hospital ward in your third year, when he had managed to sneak back into the wing even after Madam Pomfrey had specifically told him that you needed the rest, and then proceeded to accidentally stay the night.

Granted, it had been his fault you were there in the first place. But still. The sentiment was still very much appreciated.

Or maybe it had been even before then, when you had simply known him as the twin brother of your friend Fred. It had never been Fred and George to you. It was Fred, one of your best mates, and George, your boyfriend.

Your finger traces over the several scars on his hand. Accidents resulting from experiments gone awry. There are new ones to your dismay. Scars you don't know about. You tug his hand in your direction and weave your fingers through his. He responds immediately, fingers tight and secure against yours.

You smile, eyeing your interlocked hands. "Still perfect. You always did have wonderful hands." Hands you still dreamed about.

When you look up, there are splotches of red on his neck and his ears.

He's indulging you, you're sure. You'd never dream of doing something like this if you were sober.

He has a _girlfriend_.

Percy's assistant. Pretty, tall Claire with a wide smile and a musical laugh. And with that thought, the numbness that had invaded your body just a hour prior recedes, and you can feel the guilt pressing into your conscience as every stifled emotion creeps back into you one by one. It feels like a bucket of ice.

You let go of his hand and pull it back to your side. Something tells you that you need to do this now, before everything falls apart. Sitting up, you stare down at the bed sheets, trying to string together your thoughts, but everything is still hazy, difficult. You want to go to sleep while George's fingers card through your hair the same way he used to.

You hear him call your name several times. You shake your head, then draw a deep breath, looking into the face of the man who haunts both your nightmares and dreams. To you, his eyes are always soft, always gentle, but he looks so unbearably sad you want to cry.

"George. I meant what I said. I'm happy if you're happy."

You survey his face but something akin to displeasure contorts its features. Your mouth goes dry, and the courage you felt dwindles away, leaving you cold. You soldier on.

"I know things ended really abruptly between us, but the last thing I would ever want is for you to be miserable. You deserve to be happy, and Claire is amazing and—"

"Let me guess," his lips twist. "Pretty?"

_You two would make pretty babies. Molly would be pleased._

Well. Yes. That too. But you recoil at his biting tone, and the words you had managed to seize from your cloudy thoughts disapparate, leaving you to fumble over what to say next.

"Ron was staring at her like he used to stare at Fleur." You say weakly. "You two would make pretty babies." Halfhearted laughter escapes your throat. Pretty freckled babies with Claire's eyes, and George's smile. That you're sure of because you can't imagine anything else.

He doesn't smile.

"Ron can have her." He snaps out bitterly.

You gape at him, eyes wide as tears threaten to spill. You're frustrated and upset because the right words won't come out and—and _confused_. "You don't—you don't mean that." You croak out. The nausea is back, and bile rises in your throat. 

This nothing like your therapist said it would be. You kinda hate her right now. Where was the resolution? The catharsis? 

"You wouldn't know," He barks out harsh laughter. It's full of self-loathing and the sound is foreign to your ears. "Because you weren't here."

The regret that fills his face is instantaneous. Your reply dies on your tongue, and you're too stunned and hurt to say anything.

He reaches for you but you pull away. "I didn't mean that—"

"I just," You _have_ to finish this. Your vision goes blurry, and your mouth pools with blood. If the nothingness you had felt had been a high, you just plummeted. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry." A few tears escape down your face. "That's all I—" You voice cracks. The truth serum must be at work because you don't stop there, the one thing you hadn't confided to anybody, your most terrible secret that plagued you nightly flies off your tongue along with a choked sob. "If it brings you any consolation, I wish it had been me too."

With that sentence, you stumble onto your feet. The last thing you see in a blur before you tear out of the room is the crestfallen look on George's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was originally not going to end happily. this was supposed to be a one shot, but after much thinking I decided to make it a two shot bc I figured that ppl could use a happ(ier) ending rather than something even more depressing with the pandemic and all. if you know me, i really dislike the ending because i think it's so unrealistic. do i think everybody would have eventually gotten married? yes. i just think that JKR should have showed us something a bit more...substantial. like the kids learning to acknowledge the trauma and the survivor's guilt and horror of literally fighting and surviving a war.
> 
> I wanted a scene between Hermione and the reader where they talk about Ron and their break bc while I do love ron I definitely think he needs to work for Hermione (i'm also a Fremione shipper so whoops) but it was cut because of the length hnghgh
> 
> also lemme tell you that i was going to go the really angsty route. like there was supposed to be an angsty sex scene but then i changed my mind because that would have definitely not been conducive towards the healing the reader needs to properly confront her feelings. It just wasn't healthy, and too dour. 
> 
> this is probably the longest thing i've written and i had to cut out so many scenes. Like the Hermione scene, more Ginny and Harry scenes and especially more therapy scenes but I just couldn't fit it in without having to restructure the entire one shot (this wouldn't be happening to me if i just planned my stories but ah well)
> 
> as always, this is unbeta-d  
> hmu @ my tumblr [here!](http://seoafin.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Those days got away  
Hope you find solace in this

-clairo (white flag)

* * *

_"You're don't...you're not blaming yourself for Fred's death are you?"_

_Ginny's hesitant question hangs in the silence, and you pause midair, about to place one of your cups into a cardboard box. You set the cup down, ignoring the way your stomach churns like a hurricane, and smile._

_"Of course not." You say, but your voice is oddly high pitched. You clear your throat. "No."_

_You wonder if she can see through your barely put together appearance. She always has been uncannily good at that._

_She studies you, finger absentmindedly curling around the long tendrils of her red hair. "George would never blame you for Fred's death, you know that, don't you? He loves you." She licks her lips nervously. "He didn't say anything, did he? Because he didn't mean it, he's just—"_

_"I know." Taking a shaky breath, you smile at her. "I know."_

_She walks over, and squeezes your shoulder. "Just give him time. You don't have to leave—he'll be heartbroken."_

_You don't think you can face him. You don't you can ever face him. Even the thought of it makes you recoil._

_"I need some time too." And to your horror you're crying. Tears stream down your face uncontrollably as you hiccup into your hands. "Oh Gins," you struggle to get out. "I miss him so much."_

_Ginny hugs you, and to your shock, she cries with you._

* * *

You're just outside the house, on the path that leads to the village when a hand encircles your arm, effectively stopping you. Your vision is blurry but you don't need to turn to know who that hand belongs to.

"Wait—"

You try to say his name, but something instead another sob wracks your body. Your free hand swipes at your tears, but they won't stop pouring down. You haven't cried in _years,_ and you feel terrible. Absolutely horrid. You'd rather the numbness than this onslaught of emotions.

"I'm fine." You grit out, and you're glad to know that at least the truth serum has worn off, because you are decidedly _not_ fine.

"I'm sorry," George says hurriedly, "I shouldn't have said that."

"Let me go." You choke out, wanting nothing more than to be alone. You feel overwhelmed by the force of your emotions, and you don't know whether to be upset or angry or sad or maybe you feel all three and more because it all blurs together, leaving you with a bone deep ache that makes you want to collapse on the nearest bed.

"No."

The noise that leaves your mouth is a mixture of disbelief and anger. You whirl around.

He sounds pained. "I'm not going to let you leave. Not this time." There's a beat of silence when you don't look up, and he says your name. A shiver runs through your spine, because it's been too long— " _Please._ "

You meet his eyes, and the fight in you disappears, your shoulders slumping because there's a familiar glint in his eyes and you know that this is not a fight you're going to win. Something inexplicable flits across his face when you jerk your arm back to your side, crossing your arms defensively.

"Okay." You say quietly. Your eyes dart to the few wedding guests milling around the yard and peering at the two of you curiously, and mortification eats at you. "Not here."

He looks relieved. He tilts his head towards the fence.

You follow him past the fence that borders the burrow and out onto the path starting to the village. Once the two of you are alone, he gestures to your arm. "Can I?"

You don't think you should tell him that you hate apparating, a byproduct of your refusal to use magic unless absolutely necessary, but you don't, so you push down your nervousness. Nodding curtly, his hand goes to yours.

You don't comment on it, but you hate yourself when you instinctively squeeze.

There's a familiar pulling sensation at your sides, as if you're being compressed into a box, and with a loud crack, the two of you reappear in Fred and George's old flat.

Your hand goes limp to your side as you process what you see. Your head scans the room, trying to reconcile the empty, desolate living room you see with the room you had once played exploding snap in with the twins and Lee Jordan.

"You moved out." You had meant it as a question, but it comes out an accusation.

When George doesn't respond, you look at him, only to see him surveying the room, face carefully crafted into an emotionless expression and a surge of anger fills you, all hot fire, and you don't know where it comes from.

"It's been three years."

Just like that, the flame of anger is extinguished, smothered by the sorrow gripping your heart.

Before you can help it, a huff of hysterical laughter escapes you. Being in this flat where you and George had had your falling out is almost incomprehensible. You don't think you're ready for the rest of this evening.

Your mind doesn't process your feet automatically making their way to the front of a door that hasn't been opened in four years.

Fred's room.

There's a thin layer of dust to everything in the room. _Untouched_. You raise a shaky hand to the wall to steady yourself, and force yourself to breathe, but panic claws at your throat. Numbness creeps up your arms as you sink down to the floor. The sound of your heart pounding floods your ears and you're paralyzed, curling up against the wall, and taking short, shallow breaths because that's all your lungs will allow. Your head is dizzyingly light.

You vaguely register footsteps, but you don't realize George is in the room until he kneels down in front of you and pulls you into his arms, loose enough that you can easily break out. But you wrap your arms around him tightly, as if he might disappear if you let him go, and you believe it too. It feels like a dream, that he's here, in front of you. His touch brings you back to reality where you struggle to continue your shaky breaths in the crook of his shoulder. Salt touches your tongue, and before you realize it, you're sobbing loudly into him while he murmurs stories into your ears.

The first time he saw you. Enduring all of Fred and Lee's teasing. His fear that you were actually in love with Fred. How afraid he was to lose you during the war, and how he had still ended up losing you anyway.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for your tears to staunch. In the end you feel lighter. You haven't cried like that in years and yet here you are, falling apart in his arms, as if you had somehow managed to hold yourself together just for this moment. To feel safe and secure. It takes all you have not to lean into the hand in your hair, gently stroking.

"We should talk." You croak out, but your voice is muffled into his shoulder

"We should," he affirms, but his hands are still in your hair, nimble fingers taking down the fancy braids that had taken you hours to do in preparation for the wedding. He works quietly. You look up and his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. 

You can't help the watery laugh that leaves you. "I'm a mess."

"You're not a mess." He replies lightly. The slightest tremble travels through the hand in your hair. There's a pause, and a small quirk of his lips. "Not anymore than me."

You think his comment might make you cry again so instead you lift your head, arms loosening around him as you try to stifle the embarrassment creeping over you. Untangling yourself from him takes place in silence, aside from the occasional sniffle.

He's inches from you, so close that you can feel his breath and count the freckles scattered around his face, and the warmth emanating from his body makes you regret leaving it.

There are too many things you want to say, and not enough time. The years of silence have melded your mouth shut. You're not even sure where to start.

"You said you wish it had been you." George finally says, voice neutral.

Your arms tighten around your legs defensively. You had said that. Whether it had been in the spur of the moment or not, you had accidentally revealed something you hadn't told anyone. Not Ginny, Quentin, or your therapist. You should've died. You wish you had, and not Fred who had family and friends that loved and adored him. Fred, who together with George, were supposed to do great things.

Not you, who had spent the last four years feeling sorry for yourself. Shutting yourself in an unfulfilling 9 to 5 office job consisting of paperwork because it was _safe_. 

He seems to garner an answer from your silence, because his expression shifts into one of hurt. "All these years?"

The refusal jumps on your tongue, but you force your mouth closed. There doesn't seem to be any point in lying anymore.

_Only the truth can facilitate conversation._

You nod mutely, and a sharp exhale reaches your ears.

"It wasn't your fault." George says firmly, and his eyebrows crease when you stare at him. "Fred dying wasn't your fault! Is that why you left? Because you thought I—I _blamed_ you? That it should have been you and not Fred?"

Maybe just a little bit. But his incredulous tone makes your face burns. "N- _no_ —"

You can detect a hint of anger in his voice. "How could you _think_ —"

"I thought you were mad at me!" You yell, probably louder than you should because George is mere inches away. Then you groan dejectedly, close your eyes and slam the back of your head on the wall and wince. You search for the words because George is gawking at you like you've grown three heads.

This is going to be harder than you thought. 

"I...What I said to you, so soon after Fred—I should have never said that to you. Not when you were grieving. You have every right to be mad at me. I was _awful."_ You force the words out, and bile rises in your throat. All the sudden your body is wracked with anxiety because he has to be mad at you. There's no way he _isn't_. You shouldn't be here. He'd never forgive you. You knew you weren't strong enough to be on the receiving end of George's glare again. Those accusing eyes—

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

"I'm sorry George. For everything I said." You finish before you can cry again. You attempt a strained smile. "I've given up on hoping you'd forgive me. I just wanted you to know."

You brace yourself for the coming impact, nervously scanning his face. For him to pull away from you. To tell you to leave. To confirm everything you thought of on your worst days.

That's why when he leans back on his arm, throws his head back and _laughs_ , you gape at him. It's a bitter and stilted laugh, and it takes you a few moments to recognize it.

"You—" he shakes his head, eyeing you with an incredulous expression. "There's nothing to forgive. You didn't say anything that I already didn't know. I should be asking _your_ forgiveness. I was a selfish _git_. A bloody bastard. I treated you horribly, and I've regretted it ever since."

Bewildered, you wonder if his missing ear has somehow caused memory impairment. However, in midst of this inner turmoil, relief floods you because he isn't mad. He doesn't _hate_ you. Right? It almost seems laughable, but a part of you still doesn't believe it. All this time, he knew?

You say in a small voice, "You knew?"

"I had an idea." He starts slowly. "But when Percy told me you and Fred were together at the time of the—" his voice quivers "—blast, I knew. You were one of his best mates. He knew he what you meant to me and he loved you."

A single tear falls and his hand is there, thumb gently brushing your face.

You can't stand it so you pull away. "But you were grieving." Your lip trembles when you recall the pain, then the anger, etched on George's face, from a fight that seemed to be lifetimes ago. "I hurt you. Don't lie to me—I saw it in your face. _You told me to leave._ " 

His expression shutters closed, and you can't even bring yourself to feel hurt at the rejection.

Your eyes grow wet. "I thought you hated me." Words spill out, and you briefly squeeze your eyes shut. "And a part of me still thinks you do."

He laughs humorlessly. "I don't think I could ever hate you." Then he swallows, regret plastered on his face, and he looks like he wants to say something more. "I thought you knew that."

You shake your head. "I thought a lot of things. But you didn't see the way you looked at me. You—you were _angry_."

"I was angry at myself!" He exclaims. When you stiffen, he deflates. "Because of Fred, because of...you."

You're reeling, head spinning as you try to digest all this information. So he was angry at you? "I don't understand." You say weakly.

A self deprecating huff. "I wasn't right in the head after Fred died. I knew I couldn't be the man you deserved." His lips twist bitterly. "Not when I was half a man."

_Half a man._

So that's how he felt. Incomplete. You don't know what it must have felt like to lose somebody you had spent almost every waking moment with, but you had a pretty good idea. You want to tell him that he was— _is_ more than just one half of a whole, that he always has been, but the words die in your throat.

"You were grieving too. And then I told you to— _blimey_ —" he rakes his hand through his hair frustratedly "—I hurt you. I wanted to go after you. I should have."

There's a lump in your throat. "You never...you never owl'd me."

A wryly smile. "Can you blame me? I was ashamed. It was my fault you left, and I didn't even realize you were gone until it was too late. I was a coward, and I was afraid you'd gotten together with some American bloke, and decided it was better not knowing." He sighs. "Some Gryffindor I am."

You can't blame him for doing exactly what you had done.

"Quentin's just a friend." You repeat. "It's..." Your breath hitches in your throat. _It's only ever been you for me._ "Not your fault I left." He grimaces in response. "Not all of it at least." You concede.

It isn't. Not completely. New York did help you in ways that staying in England couldn't. After the war, you couldn't stand the monotony. The expectation that things would return back to normal, as if the war had never happened. You had seen too many people— _good people_ — die.

Sometimes, you can still feel the ghost of Fred's hand tightly clamped over your arm, shoving you right before the rubble had buried you both. Your nails press down, and the pain anchors you to reality.

"Well, Ginny didn't talk to me for a month. Not to mention mum was practically heartbroken. I assume I'm the reason why you haven't answered any of mum's Christmas invites?"

You shift uncomfortably under his sight. "I just...didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"'Course," he says flatly.

"It's not like I was alone!" You insist quickly, because you don't want him to feel bad. "Quentin doesn't have family either. We made it work somehow." And you shrug in a way that you hope indicates indifference.

You love Christmas, a fact you're sure George remembers how it became your favorite holiday once you had started celebrating it with the Weasleys.

You glance at him hesitantly, and catch a flash of irritation on George's face, before he frowns. "You don't have to spare my feelings."

"George."

At the sound of his name, he sighs. "'m sorry."

"Don't be. New York was good for me." You lick your lips. "We both messed up."

He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he studies you so intently, your face heats up at the scrutiny. You train your sight on the floor. When you look back up, you're momentarily caught off guard at how close he is. His gaze softens, and you want to kiss him so badly you think you might die.

"I think about you everyday," he murmurs, and his breath fans over your face.

Your mouth goes dry. The sentence rings in your ears, and you hate yourself and your traitorous heart because it speeds up, because for the first time in years you feel alive. Awake. And it's not fair. He has a life, one that you were once a part of but not anymore. A life without you in it. It's not fair to suck him back into your problems and issues, especially when it doesn't feel like you've even remotely started to heal.

You have nightmares every other night when you haven't plied yourself to sleep with the pills. No magic unless absolutely necessary. You drink copiously and hate yourself for it. You know Quentin's been over when all the alcohol in your apartment has been mysteriously cleared. Neither of you mention it.

Numb during the days and heaving into toilets during the nights. Panic attacks in enclosed spaces—you can't even ride an elevator. Sometimes you wander the city at night drunk and alone without your wand because it's reckless and infinitely better than waking up, and struggling to breathe because you can still feel the weight of the rubble digging into your body, obstructing your airway.

You won't. You can't. Not when he's doing so well. You refuse to drag him down with you into this rut of yours.

"And you think about me too."

You don't like the sound of that. That coaxing tone, like he's building up to something. Ever the charmer, peddling his new products. But it's familiar, and you latch onto it, even though the other familiar thread of self-loathing coils in your gut.

_I keep them in my desk and look at them when I miss you._

Your memory of the last couple of hours is still hazy. And you _had_ mentioned the Daily Prophet clippings. Had you said that aloud? You must have, because he's looking at you expectantly as he waits for your confirmation.

_Of course I do._

Your whisper is barely audible. "You said Ron could have her."

His face hardens. The silence spans two heartbeats, and when he speaks, regret tinges his voice, because George at his core is a good person, and Claire is another good person who is in _love_ with him, and you know because she positively glows when she looks at him, and you recognize that look because she looks at him the same way you do. "I did."

You wonder if he knows.

You should feel elated. Instead you feel hollow. You're sad and heartbroken, and not for yourself. Your face falls, and George must think so for all the wrong reasons. You hear your name fall from his lips, but you tear your eyes away.

"You shouldn't have said that." Your rejection is entwined in your words and you don't think you can bear to look at him, but you do.

His throat bobs, jaw tight. "I know."

You open your mouth, but you don't know what to say. In the end, you allow yourself the tiniest comfort and lean into him, and settle on, "I want you to be happy."

You don't expect him to pull you into his arms. You blink in surprise when his arms wrap around you, and takes you down with him as he falls on his back. The change in positions makes you stiffen.

"Geo—"

"Shhhh."

The beat of his heart is steady against your ear. You should get back to your hotel room, and George should get back to the burrow, but the strength has left your body. There's still so many things you want to say, so many things that you want to know about the years you've been gone, but you decide to settle in his warmth. A part of you knows you're being selfish, but you can't help but revel in his touch.

"Just for a little bit." He pleads, and even though your vision is obscured by his chest, you think he could easily bring you to your knees and make you stay.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you pretend not to notice.

When he tells you he loves you, you pretend not to hear.

* * *

quentin never asks about your whereabouts the night of the wedding. ginny had put two and two together and wisely decided to cover your and george's disappearance, but by then the gossip sets in. you don't ask, but you don't need to because ginny stays suspiciously quiet. back in america, it takes a couple of bottles of vodka to let the words loose, but quentin doesn't judge, never has.

begrudgingly, you return to therapy. and you get better. slowly. you replace the alcohol with juice. you're waned off the sleeping pills. you take up knitting. magic is used for the simple things; washing dishes, quickly tidying up, etc. AA chips are scattered around your apartment, and there's one in your pocket at all times. sometimes you waver, and sometimes you wake up with screams tearing out of your throat, but you persevere because you are tired of stewing in your misplaced (therapist's words) guilt.

you like to think that fred would be proud of you.

you move back. eventually. quentin decides to take a job at the ministry of magic so you aren't completely alone (not that you are. molly insists you visit the burrow with quentin every weekend for the first month as you get reacquainted with your surroundings).

in your third month back, you finally muster enough nerve to walk in to diagon alley's weasleys' wizard wheezes for the first time in years. startled, ron accidentally drops the box of products in his hands on your foot and breaks it. the clamor draws george out, and ron awkwardly takes his leave sputtering his apologies. 

that night, after fixing your foot, george asks you to dinner— _because it's always been **you**._

one day, you'll tell him about why you don't touch alcohol, or the chips. your aversiveness to magic. the random bundles of yarn. about healing. you'd like to hear about him too.

you accept.

* * *

two years later, on the anniversary of the battle of hogwarts, george asks you to marry him.

you accept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me a while to gather where i planned to end this bc i originally planned to end with smt depressing. i started this chapter three different times, each taking a wildly different direction but i ultimately decided on this to come full circle. 
> 
> i regret the version of this epilogue (?) with Luna in it did not make the cut :( she's always been one of my favorite characters, and I really wanted to include her more but alas, i'll have other stories to write her in all her whimsical glory
> 
> of course, this (much needed) conversation is one of many. there's still many things that george and the rea need to work out before they can be together. i don't think the rea is in the right mental/emotional state to fully have a conversation about her problems. i think she needs to work on herself before anything else. 
> 
> now i have to work on memento mori so until i grind out the next chapter my george works will have to be put on the backburner. however, i do have a BLM commission so i do expect it to be out soon. 
> 
> thanks for reading!


End file.
